


Counting Wolves And Old Sheep

by BonesAndScales



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fae Will, Fluff, Invisible Will, M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 11:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales/pseuds/BonesAndScales
Summary: A continuation ofMokuyoubi'sI Do Wander Everywherewritten for the April Fool's fic swap.The wide-eyed, single minded focus with which Hannibal tries to locate him almost makes Will croon. The thrill of the chase hasn’t vanished but in this precise moment, the predatory skills he may have once likened to that of a lion only remind him of an intrepid, excitable kitten.





	Counting Wolves And Old Sheep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mokuyoubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Do Wander Everywhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296562) by [mokuyoubi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi). 



> A tiny fluffy spin-off of Mokuyoubi's awesome Fae Will fic!

Too eager to escape the bite of winter to deal with the handle, Will marches right through the door leading to the second-floor landing of Hannibal’s office. A relieved sigh escapes his lips as the familiar, almost forgotten warmth of the room engulfs him, and he wriggles his cold toes on the rug, feeling for the first time and appreciating the softness under his bare feet.

Quiet notes catch his attention, gracefully rising from the gramophone, working heat and comfort back into his limbs--a comfort the same gramophone at Hannibal’s house failed to provide even as it filled the silence.

“Good evening, Will.”

There he is.

Will’s lips curl in a smile despite himself. He had had enough of counting the hours back at the empty manor, waiting for the low purr of the Bentley. There were only so many kitchen tools he could swap in the drawers, and so many liquor cabinets he could raid without going back to the hospital completely smashed. As an ultimate resort he had tried to kill time sleeping, but rolling around in Hannibal’s satin sheets soothed him for approximately eight minutes before worry came back gnawing at his mind.

“My apologies, I should have warned you I would come home late,” Hannibal continues without looking up--he would not be able to see Will either way--and the sheer domesticity of the statement caresses Will’s skin, feather-light. “It was rude of me to keep you waiting.”

“Shockingly rude, indeed,” Will says, running a hand through his hair and shaking off fresh snow. “How will you make up for this affront?”

“I can think of a few ways.” The smile in Hannibal’s tone sends a pleasant shiver up Will’s spine. It feels good, this thing blooming between them, from them. Not quite conventional a love, but neither of them has ever been fond of conventions. “Although I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait some more. I’m not quite done with these,” Hannibal adds, tapping his fountain pen against the page.

Will tsks. “Slacking off, doctor? It’s unlike you. What would your patients think?” He'd noticed of course that Hannibal has been leaving his office much sooner lately--for his sake, Will knows, though Hannibal would probably never admit it--no doubt postponing work until he couldn’t afford to anymore.

“I couldn’t have called,” Hannibal says. Will hums in assent. Wouldn’t do to give Jack anything to be suspicious of--say, for instance, a call to his own house to inform nobody that he would be late. How hilarious would it be, however, for the Chesapeake Ripper to finally be caught because of his courtesy? “And it would have been arrogant of me to presume you would be there.”

Will leans on his forearms over the railing, rests his chin on his palm. His smirk rings loud and clear in his voice when he says, “Because you aren’t?”

Not a hitch in the smooth glide of the pen.

Will knows. He has read the Ripper file a thousand times, given lectures on his profile for years, memorised every murder, every display, every humiliation, and he knows. Hannibal has killed for less than that.

He can’t help but be amused by their situation, amazed at the control he holds over Hannibal, and curious how far he could push.

 _Feast on his very flesh, if you so desire,_ the voices whisper, playful and wicked. _We fear no man_.

For a moment, there is nothing between them but the steady scratch of pen on paper and the crackling of the fire, somewhere under the landing, outside of Will’s eyesight.

Strange place, Hannibal’s office. It may not quite hold the intimacy of his home, but it undoubtedly shares its hermetic aura. A world within the world. A concept not entirely unfamiliar to Will, and perhaps the reason why, despite his aversion to psychiatrists, he’s always felt eerily at ease in this room.

He straightens up, saunters along the narrow aisle on quiet feet.

“I had planned to get home in time to make us dinner, but it seems I miscalculated the amount of work I had left.” Another wonderfully domestic statement and promise.

Will hums in response, too soft to be heard over the gramophone. He studies the shelves lining the walls. An entire section is dedicated to patient notes, marked with dot stickers, following a precise colour system. Will’s eyes linger on one. One big red dot, one small red dot. His finger slides over the spine a moment, torn between curiosity and apprehension, before he moves on.

He deciphers titles as he goes, one hand idly caressing the wall of books. Quite an eclectic selection, predominantly in English and in French. Some he has read himself, others he hasn’t, and the rest... the rest he doesn’t even recognise the writing system used.

“How many languages do you speak?” he asks, pulling a thin book, Japanese, from the highest shelf, and skimming through the pages. All of them are filled with colourful illustrations, plants and landscapes and animals, interspersed with short lines of handwritten text. Poetry.

“Only human ones I’m afraid.”

Will’s eyes flicker back to Hannibal, still diligently making notes. An amused smile dances on his lips as he asks, “Do you think I speak some… ancient, esoteric language?”

“It’s not unlikely,” Hannibal says. “You did allude to others of your kind.”

Will smirks, doesn’t bite. “Where would I have learnt it?” he asks instead.

“Of all the things I keep discovering about you, xenoglossy wouldn’t be the most surprising.”

Despite the nonchalance with which Hannibal delivered this theory, Will suspects he has been musing over it since that night he mentioned _them_. But Will doesn’t enlighten him. Any piece of information related to his abilities, Will wants to make him earn.

Hannibal doesn’t press, or do anything to earn an answer, so Will closes the poetry book and places it back on the shelf to resume his stroll down the landing. He stops near the pillar closest to the entrance, silently crouches down to sit on the floor, legs dangling over the edge. The languid lament of the cello soon has him leaning against the post, and swinging his legs lightly. He wonders if Hannibal can feel the displacement of air from such little movements.

Hannibal’s chin tilts up for the first time tonight, his eyes flickering around the empty space where Will’s feet are hanging.

Looks like he can.

Will stills his legs, straightens up, curious.

The fountain pen clacks softly against the polished wood and Hannibal pushes up from his chair, unfurling in a long, feline movement. He circles the desk, head still raised, gaze roaming the space around Will.

Will moves his feet in slow circles, rotating his ankles, observing Hannibal’s reactions. The wide-eyed, single minded focus with which he tries to locate him almost makes Will croon. The thrill of the chase hasn’t vanished but in this precise moment, the predatory skills he may have once likened to that of a lion only remind him of an intrepid, excitable kitten. _That_ thought tears a quiet, rumbling croon from his chest, and Hannibal’s gaze snaps back to the spot just beside the post, right where Will is sitting, attention razor sharp.

Will pauses in his movements, his mouth gradually stretching in a slow grin as Hannibal prowls closer, closer, until he’s standing right in front of him, searching for a hint of Will’s presence.

Will considers giving him one. Reveal a toe, a knee, something.

Hannibal’s hand clamps around his ankle.

Will gasps, jerks in the grasp. It tightens.

He stills. Holds his breath.

A beat.

Two.

The iron grip around his ankle relaxes. Hannibal’s hand, warm and firm and calloused, cups his heel, thumb caressing the sensitive skin of his instep. Will lets out a shuddering breath, and his own fingers release their white-knuckled grip on the edge of the landing.

“Well. Good job, I guess,” he says, pleased, a huff of laughter leaving him on an exhale.

Hannibal considers the space in his hand, palm sliding under the sole of the foot he can’t see. A slight frown mars his expression. “You’re freezing.”

“Winter is merciless this year,” Will says, shrugging. “A real wonder that I still have my toes.” He curls and points them for emphasis, and Hannibal’s other hand closes around them with unnerving accuracy, rubbing lightly.

Will leans against the post again, watches as Hannibal makes out the shape of his foot through touch alone, tracing the bones and tendons with sure hands. He lets out a short laugh each time his fingertips tickle the arch, the ball, each toe. Hannibal’s hand wraps around his ankle to keep him still, although much gentler than the first time. His movements slow from questing touches to unhurried brushes. He caresses the bridge with his thumb, eyes lost in contemplation. Then he leans in, eyelids falling to half mast.

Will’s foot phases through his palm as he yanks his legs back up.

Hannibal blinks, stares at his now empty hands as though they have betrayed him. A couple more seconds, and he shakes himself out of his trance.

“Why not come down?” he asks, looking up, “Isn’t it cold up there?”

Well. This was a rather unexpected discovery.

“I quite like the view,” Will says, lightly running a hand over the bridge of his foot, chasing the ghost of Hannibal’s fingers. The shock ebbs away, leaving room for a quiet thrill and a smirk to stretch across his lips. That’s something that ought to be explored further. Later. “It’s surprising, the things you get to observe when you see without being seen.” And there are unsaid truths lying here that neither of them cares to acknowledge yet.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is stalking. Not entirely ethical either.”

“I don’t remember you ever having much reservation for the unethical.”

Hannibal ducks his head, but Will still sees the corner of his mouth twitching up. He returns to his desk, refills his almost empty glass. Then he settles back in his chair, picking up his pen, leaving the glass untouched on the corner of the desk--an invitation and an apology.

Will accepts both, stands and makes his way to the ladder to climb down. The cold hardwood creaks under his weight, a sharp contrast to the soft rug. Hannibal doesn’t react to the sound, but Will has his undivided attention, feels its weight kissing his skin. He may not even be writing anything coherent in his notes, focused instead on Will’s every movement. Or rather, what he can guess of Will’s movements, from sound and smell and whatnot.

Will goes to pull the curtains close with a flourish, quite literally closing their last window to the rest of the world, but unfortunately not drawing any reaction from Hannibal. He wanders around the room, lets his hands slide over the back of the couch and chairs and tables, leaves his trace on everything he can reach. Hopes that amidst the whirlwind of scents that come and go in here day after day, Hannibal would only smell his.

His meandering leads him back to Hannibal. He circles the desk, snatches the glass of wine on his way-- _that_ earns him a quick glance from Hannibal--and sits on the edge, his hip but inches away from Hannibal’s left arm. The wine swirls in the glass as he brings it to his mouth. He tips it slightly, watches on with amusement as Hannibal can only stare at the wine slipping towards the edge, and vanishing into thin air, in a velvety slide down Will’s tongue.

Hannibal’s hand slowly, carefully moves over the cold wood, until his knuckles bump against Will’s hip.

Will swats his hand away. “Ah ah. Finish your work. We’re never getting you home at this rate.”

Hannibal arches an eyebrow at the tone, but obliges nevertheless, filling the page with his loopy, elegant handwriting. A comfortable silence settles again, coiling around the hum of the cello. Will leans back on his free hand, head tilted back and eyes closed, lightly tapping his index finger to the tempo. His skin tingles with their proximity.

The minutes tick by, he steals a couple more sips before extending the glass back to Hannibal. Searching fingers meet his, slide down to his wrist, lingering on his pulse a moment before taking hold of the stem. Hannibal allows himself one sip, his lips kissing the rim where Will’s had laid.

Satisfied, Will pushes off the desk and wanders over to the small table littered with sketches. He reaches for the top one, an incredibly detailed architectural drawing, he suspects, drawn from memory alone. His eyes roam over the intricate reconstruction for a moment before he moves on to the next, careful as he lifts the sheet to reveal the one beneath.

He pauses. Blinks.

“Is that me?”

Though the figure is facing away, his ears being the only discernible feature of his face, the untamed curls are unmistakable.

“I’m afraid these might be inaccurate,” Hannibal says.

 _These_.

Underneath, two more figure drawings whose male model is strikingly familiar.

“I had yet to see you in the nude at the time I drew them.”

And Will should definitely not be the one to flush, even though he cannot quite imagine Hannibal Lecter ever feeling anything remotely close to shame. If anything, he would be more displeased about the drawings being anything less than perfect than embarrassed about literally having nudes of Will lying around.

Self-consciousness aside, Will is actually quite impressed at how faithful the sketches are if Hannibal had, as he says, never seen him naked prior to these.

“And now that you have?” he asks, going through the rest of the stack.

“I’m much more satisfied with their accuracy, though I can’t keep them in the office.”

“Too inappropriate?”

“I’m not usually one to share.”

Will is surprised when delight more than bashfulness colours his cheeks this time, as affection swells in his chest. Being desired is not at all unpleasant a feeling. He could get used to it.

“The more recent ones are in the study, if you’d like to compare,” Hannibal says, surprisingly comfortable with the idea of anyone snooping around in his house, possibly uncovering secrets that should never leave the walls. But considering that Will is already in the know about his… particular hobbies, he supposes a stash of hand drawn porn would be the least of his worries. Will smiles to himself. What a peculiar pair they make.

A corner peeking out from the side of the stack catches his attention. He takes it between his fingers and carefully extracts it from under the other sheets.

Behind him, Hannibal’s patient notes close with a muffled _thump_.

Will places the sketch on top of the stack.

“Dinner, was it?” Hannibal says, his chair creaking as he gets up.

Will’s fingers trace the edges of the replica of the Wound Man. He’s hardly surprised to find this sketch in Hannibal’s collection, since he used it as inspiration for one of his tableaux, but he cannot quite detach his gaze from it. “How did Miriam Lass find you?” he asks.

Hannibal pauses, just a second. “Through her wit and her determination.”

Will’s fingertip settles on the hilt of the blade jutting out from the figure’s flank. “And…?”

“And her thoroughness.”

Miriam Lass had found something in relation to Jeremy Olmstead’s murder. Something they didn’t see, or didn’t think to look into. “A mistake. Something small, that you neglected.” His finger glides over the blade, until it reaches the wound. “Whatever it was, you made sure nobody could find it again, yes?” But it had been there. The proof that Hannibal is not infallible. There have to be other weak points in the otherwise flawless tapestry of his public life. Loose ends. Unfinished business. Forgotten trails. “You’re human after all,” Will says, more to himself than to Hannibal. A reminder of sorts that however monstrous Hannibal may be, he’s not quite the same kind of monster as Will is.

“One of us has to be,” Hannibal says, his voice much closer now. A hand finds Will’s shoulder blade, then the back of Hannibal's fingers slides down his spine, lingering against his tailbone before climbing back up. “I thought we had established that your intention was to steer the FBI’s attention away from me.”

“Can you blame me for looking for some entertainment? Days never end, locked away in a box of steel and concrete. All day through, nothing but night time to miss.” Will rolls his shoulders as Hannibal’s hand rests on his nape, thumb caressing his hairline. One last glance at the Wound Man, and Will files it all in the back of his mind, to be examined another time. He turns to face Hannibal. “I’ll find them. I’ll find your mistakes.”

The hand settles around his neck, light, but fingers a vice against the sides of his throat.

“Your curiosity can never be quenched, can it?”

Will scoffs. “Unfortunately for you,” he says, not bothering to dematerialise through Hannibal’s hand. One step forward, the pressure against his windpipe is still more tease than discomfort. “I’ll feast on your flesh,” Will purrs out, a languorous promise, “If I so desire.”

A curiosity echoing his own sparks to life in Hannibal’s eyes, darkened by the faintest of arousal as they flicker in the empty space in front of him, searching for Will. The hand around his neck readjusts its grip, fingertips leaving his skin but for a second, and tightens just so, just enough for his Adam’s apple to push into Hannibal’s palm when he swallows.

Will extends his hand, places it on Hannibal's chest, mirroring the pressure on his own throat--and oh, the hitch in Hannibal’s breath is _exquisite_ \--where his tie disappears in his waistcoat, right over his sternum. He reveals himself, finger by finger, inch by inch, as they hold each other in respect. Rapt, Hannibal’s gaze follows the crawling line of visible skin, up his arm and up his chest, lingering on a smirk before their eyes finally meet.

Will wants him to see. He wants him to realise how easily he could penetrate through skin and bone, bury his fingers like claws into his heart. How easily he could tear it out of his chest, bring it to his mouth for his teeth to sink into, still warm and beating.

A deep, intoxicating sense of power courses through his veins at holding Hannibal at his mercy, his life right under his palm.

“ _We fear no man_.” His voice sounds his own, and at the same time, something else entirely. Something rougher, something older. Something _other_.

Hannibal lets out a pleased, shuddering breath, his fingers flexing against Will’s throat, before he says, “We, again.”

Will blithely ignores him, again.

He strokes Hannibal’s chest, following the line of his tie, and the moment breaks.

Another step forward and Hannibal’s hand finds his jaw, cups his head. Will pushes up on his tip toes, bridging those two inches Hannibal holds on him. His eyelids fall close as their mouths meet in a chaste kiss. Their first tonight and, Will trusts, by no means their last.

Hannibal sighs into it, pushes back against Will, their lips sliding in a sensuous, familiar dance. He strokes the bare skin of Will’s shoulders and sides, up and down, tender, worshipful, fingers catching onto the spaces between his ribs. His arms close around Will’s middle, pull them flush together. Will chuckles, bares his teeth to nibble on Hannibal’s bottom lip, tugging lightly--just a tease, just a taste--before he breaks the kiss, heels falling back on the floor. He leans back, waist still secure in Hannibal's hold.

“Dinner, was it?”


End file.
